The Biggest Hoax
by a-thousand-years
Summary: Harry Potter has pulled the wool over the entire Wizarding World's eyes. Who is Harry Potter really? Is he the trusting soldier molded by Dumbledore? Or is he the Dark Lord's long kept secret? He's finally ready to tell.
1. All Powerful

**The Biggest Hoax**

**Summary:** Harry Potter pulled the biggest hoax ever seen by the Wizarding World. Who is Harry Potter really? Is he the trusting soldier molded by Dumbledore? Or is he the Dark Lord's long kept secret?

**Author's Note:** If you read chapter one _before _chapter two came out, please read chapter one again. There are important edits.

**Chapter One; All Powerful**

I was seven when I met the Dark Lord. He was inhabiting a man who lived across the street from me, Mr. Atherton, and he just so happened to save my life. At the age of seven, I was already plotting ways I could die. I could act out and make Uncle Vernon kill me, that would be easy. I could stand in front of a car and wait until it threw me ten feet like a rag doll. I could hang myself with one of Uncle Vernon's ties. That's how much I hated my life. There were a million and one ways I could go about with my suicide, and Mr. Atherton was there the one time I had enough courage to go through with it.

When Mrs. Barclay wasn't home, I filled her shallow kiddie pool with water from the hose and lay face down in it. My eyes were closed, and my mind was calm and at peace with what would happen. I was almost there, falling through this deep, dark well when someone pulled me out of the water and shook me. Standing there, cool as a cucumber, was Mr. Atherton, Mrs. Barclay's next door neighbor.

Mr. Atherton was a middle-aged gangling man with thin, spindly fingers. Overall, his appearance was forgettable, and that's what the Dark Lord needed. He probably observed me for weeks, assessing my situation at home and my status in Little Whinging. In what way should he approach me to make me trust him? He was correct, of course, in assuming that I thirsted for a taste of the normal life where food was not withheld as punishment and a beating was not considered a normal occurrence. He was incorrect in assuming that I needed a life saving. I hated him for pulling me out of the seductive arms of Death.

Dudley's castoffs were like anchors, heavy from being soaked in water, and they pulled me down. I lay on the grass next to the pool and faced the open blue skies, forcing down the bitter disappointment that threatened to consume me.

"What a terrible idea," he said.

"Was not," I said indignantly, still feeling like I missed out on the greatest Christmas present ever.

"It is when you could be making your family pay, instead of taking your life."

"_What?_" I said softly, and pushed myself to my elbows. I looked up at Mr. Atherton with these huge green eyes, rolling around what he said in my head, trying to deduce the meaning of his words. In the end, I decided to play ignorant.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I muttered, and dropped back down to the ground. He made a noise in the back of his throat.

"Why do your family a favor when what they probably want most is for you to die?"

That really shocked me. What does Mr. Atherton know about my family life?

"I know a lot more than you think,"

"Are you a mind reader?" I demanded. He chuckled, and I felt like he was laughing at me, so I pulled up my defenses.

"Never mind," I snapped.

"I am," he said, when his chuckles subsided. "I can read yours especially well. It's like an open book."

I stood up this time, feeling quite vulnerable now that he mentioned he could conveniently read my thoughts, and turned my back to him.

"Are you still doing it?"

"I need to make eye contact," he admitted.

"Well," I said lamely. "Good,"

"Potter - "

"How do you know my last name?" I asked sharply, turning to face him.

"I... knew your parents," he said very offhandedly. Did I believe him? No. He was Mr. Atherton, he's been there for as long as I could remember, and he hated me just as much as every other neighbor did. How the hell would he know my parents.

"They were drunks." I said flatly.

"Is that what they filled your head with? No, they were not drunks."

"Who _are _you," I complained, completely exasperated with what he claimed to know and do.

"I'm not Mr. Atherton," he said seriously.

"Ha, ha. Very funny."

"I'm not Mr. Atherton," he insisted.

"Then _who _are you?" I asked, with narrowed eyes.

"My name, is Tom Marvolo Riddle,"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle." I echoed. The words felt awfully strange on my tongue.

"If you're Tom Marvolo Riddle, who is Mr. Atherton?"

"I am,"

I threw my hands up in the air, finished with his nonsensical answers.

"I'm leaving. No thanks for saving my life," I said sarcastically, and headed towards the front of the house to escape from this madman. His voice stopped me.

"This body belongs to Mr. Atherton, but I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, am living in it."

"That makes no sense, what so ever." I said bluntly.

"Not if you're a wizard," he said.

Okay, this is where I mention that I am not a normal boy. I am wise beyond my years, and overall, I do not act like your normal child. I probably stopped being one when I was dropped off at the Dursleys. I was raised to do their bidding, and nothing more. In the Dursley household, everything must be normal. It is some kind of psychotic illness, I suppose, and I don't know how I managed to escape their insanity unscathed. All in all, I am still sane and I don't believe in what they believe.

One of their beliefs is that the word "magic" is synonymous to the word "Satan". Even Dudley can't say the word without suffering some kind of consequence. I never knew why the lot of them went totally nuts over the word or anything related to magic. And now here is a man who is both Mr. Atherton and not Mr. Atherton, claiming that he is a wizard. A person who can perform magic.

My first instinct was to joke about it.

"What do you do? Pull bunnies out of trick hats?"

He frowned, as if confused about why he would be able to do that.

"I suppose I could if I wanted to. But, no, I am not a magician. I am a wizard,"

"I'm afraid I don't see the difference," I said.

"A magician," he began. "Is some kind of _Muggle _recreation." he spat, with obvious contempt. The word Muggle was of importance to him, but I had no idea what that word meant. I was pretty sure the word wasn't in the dictionary.

"What's a Muggle?"

The question really bothered him, I could tell. He breathed in hard, as if getting ready for a long-winded explanation, and then clenched his teeth.

"_Muggles, _are what we call non-magic folk. Like your _relatives._"

"Then I guess I'm a _Muggle _too," I said the word with exactly the same contempt as he did.

He stared at me, seemed to stare right _through _me, and started to shake his head.

"You are the furthest thing from a Muggle," he said slowly.

"You sound so confident," I mumbled. "Don't you think I would have noticed by now if I were a wizard? I could have just... I don't know, _magicked _myself out of this God forsaken place."

"You've never noticed anything strange happen to you? Unusual?" he asked me.

I thought about it really hard, and the incident with the hair came to mind. Aunt Petunia gave me a truly hideous haircut one day, and I was too horrified to go to school with it. Strangely enough, when I woke up in the morning, my hair was back to its usual unruly way. She threw a fit, calling me the devil's child, and locked me in the basement for two weeks. The basement is where they put me when they really want to punish me. Forget the cupboard under the stairs. That place is like a safe haven compared to the roach infested, moss-covered basement.

"See? You are a wizard," he said.

"Stop reading my mind," I snapped. "I enjoy my privacy,"

"I can teach you how to protect your mind so no one can read it,"

"What are you? A magical teacher from a secret society who was sent here to take me away and train me?"

He threw his head back and laughed.

"No, it's nothing like that. I _could _be your teacher, and the Wizarding World _is_ secret from Muggles, but there is much more to it. You are an important player to a game I am playing, if you want me to be completely honest with you."

"So you're using me."

"Yes and no. It's complicated, Potter. If you want to know about it, come to my house tomorrow. We'll discuss our situation."

I accepted, and unhappily left Mrs. Barclay's backyard.

**&**

It was summer vacation, so I had time to visit Mr. Atherton. I finished the list of chores Uncle Vernon left for me, endured a game of Harry Hunting, then finally made my way down the street. His house looked exactly like ours, but in a different color.

I knocked on his door and waited for him to answer. He opened the door, and invited me inside. Inside the house was like an old museum. I never pegged Mr. Atherton as a history buff, but I guess you can never tell what a person is really like just from living across from him. There were old books, sculptures, paintings, and ancient weapons lying around the house. He led me to the living room and sat on a dusty leather chair. I sat across from him.

"So how does that work. You inhabiting Mr. Atherton, I mean."

"I don't have a body," he informed me. I blinked at him owlishly.

"You... don't have a body. Okay. But you still have, what, a soul?" I asked.

"I do. Someone tried to kill me, but they did not succeed. My body was completely destroyed, but my soul remained. I escaped to the forests in Albania and lived there for the first four years, inhabiting the bodies of small animals and snakes, until I stumbled upon a wizard who was traveling alone. It was easy to possess him, just as I am possessing Mr. Atherton right now. After that, I caught up on what I had missed in my years hiding in Albania."

"And then you landed in Little Whinging?"

"I confess, I came to Little Whinging looking for you. And it helped that Mr. Atherton is a lonely man with no roots or familial ties. I could possess his body without playing up to his family."

"You were looking for me," I repeated. The idea was sort of creepy, that this man wandered around for years looking for me.

"Yes. After your parents died, you were supposed to go to your Godfather, but I discovered that he went to Azkaban - that's a high security prison - so he was unable to act as your guardian. Dumbledore put you somewhere, and he made sure that you and your relatives were kept secret."

I sat dumbfounded in the chair, resisting the urge to blurt out a million questions at once. Who was my Godfather and what had he done to deserve to go to a high security prison? Who was Dumbledore? In the end, my family took precedence.

"You said you knew my parents?" I asked slowly, feeling a shiver of hate for the Dursleys who had lied to me for years about the existence of my parents.

"Yes, in a way, I did," he responded carefully. I leaned forward, eager to hear more.

"And they weren't drunks? They didn't die in a car accident? They were wizards as well? How did they die?" I pounded out the questions, wanting to know the truth about my parents - parents that I thought were useless drunks until this moment.

"They were wizards," he conceded. "They were very intelligent, strong-willed - " he paused in mid-sentence, his eyes glazing over as if he were thinking about something very far away.

"They - " Mr. Atherton paused again. It seemed it was very difficult for him to stumble over that bit of information, which piqued my interest even more, but before I could ask, he closed the topic.

"That is for another day, yes."

I blew a frustrated raspberry, and gave him an accusatory glare.

"You can't tell me about my parents?" I asked angrily, feeling the blood pump between my ears.

"It is a long story for another day." he said firmly, leaving no room for me to rebuttle.

I sighed, recognizing a road block when I saw one, and continued with my other questions.

"You mentioned a Godfather?" I asked, hating myself for feeling a glimmer of hope stirring in the bottom of my heart.

"His name is Sirius Black - "

"_Sirius Black?_" I cried out. "The madman who killed 13 people in the streets?"

Mr. Atherton stilled and looked up at my shocked face. His eyes found mine, and I looked away, afraid he would read my mind again. I fingered with the threads sticking out of my shirt and tried not to pay any attention to him.

"Look at me," he demanded. "_Look at me,_"

There was something venomous in his voice, something that made me shiver, so I looked up despite my own hesitations. And this time, I realized what he meant by "you're an open book." He leafed through all of my memories that included Sirius Black, which included news programs, newspaper articles, wanted posts, and then broke eye contact.

"Hmm, I never realized he was a wanted figure in the Muggle commnity as well." he said thoughtfully.

"You could have just asked me, you know," I muttered into my lap, feeling indignant that he violated my privacy once again. He waved his hand, and brushed my words away.

"No matter. He is an innocent man."

"_What?_" I gasped. "So why is he the most wanted man in both magical and Muggle worlds? Surely if he was innocent they would have found him to be...?"

Mr. Atherton shook his head.

"He never got a trial. There were too many witnesses that 'saw' him kill those people."

I felt disgust rise within me. My Godfather, the only living person left with a link to my parents and me, was in prison for something he didn't commit.

"The people in the wizarding world must be incompetent then," I snapped.

"Just the Ministry of Magic," he reassured me.

"The Ministry of Magic?"

"I'll explain later. There are more pressing questions, I'm sure?"

I fired the next question. "Who tried to kill you?"

Mr. Atherton gave me a long searching look.

"That is also for another time, I believe."

"Why?" I frowned. It didn't seem like a terribly personal question.

"A later time," he said firmly. I sighed and let it go.

"Why didn't you completely die?"

"Ah," he started. "I put safeguards as to insure that I would not completely die if I were somehow killed,"

"Is that even possible?"

"Anything is possible, Potter, with magic. You'll understand soon. In the end, it comes down to how much power you wield and what you can do with it."

"Can anyone do that? How did you become so all powerful? Are you sure you're powerful?" I asked dubiously.

He scoffed and crossed his legs.

"No one would have done what I did. It is considered extremely dark magic, but then again, no one is as powerful as I am, except for maybe two people."

That sounded interesting.

"Really? And who are those two people?"

Mr. Atherton stood up and got a drink from a table on the side of the room. He took his sweet time, mixing and stirring. I was growing impatient, and was about to say something, when he spoke again.

"Dumbledore," he said.

"And?" I pressed further, anxious to hear his answer.

"And," he paused.

"And you,"

* * *

**A sort of new idea that I have. Reviews and suggestions welcome. Thanks!**


	2. Conversations

**The Biggest Hoax**

**Summary:** Harry Potter pulled the biggest hoax ever seen by the Wizarding World. Who is Harry Potter really? Is he the trusting soldier molded by Dumbledore? Or is he the Dark Lord's long kept secret?  
**  
Chapter Two; Conversations**

__

"Dumbledore," he said.

"And?" I pressed further, anxious to hear his answer.

"And," he paused.

"And you,"

* * *

"And me?" I repeated, with a gobsmacked expression on my face.

Mr. Atherton turned around, with his drink in hand, and slowly nodded.

"Yes, you have the potential to be great," he informed me.

I leaned further into the chair and frowned, drinking in his words. The more he talked, the more I began to doubt his story. I was a reasonable person, and I could accept his story to a certain degree, but I still needed a clear demonstration of his abilities. Was magic actually real?

"I know you can read minds, but I still haven't seen any _real _magic," I said haughtily.

He raised an eyebrow and observed me with piercing brown eyes. It was the summertime, but he still wore a thin, breezy dark-blue, long-sleeved t-shirt. And now I knew why. He snapped his wrist forward and a long, maybe about 13 inches, wooden rod came flying out into the palm of his hand. He gripped it, and suddenly vanished. And then quite literally re-appeared three feet away. My jaw dropped, because that was simply amazing.

"Again," I demanded, not quite believing my own eyes. He complied, and disappeared into thin air. I looked wildly in front of me, trying to see where he had gone, but I couldn't find him.

"Now do you believe me?" a smooth voice inquired from beside my left ear. I jumped, pivoted, and gave him a wide-eyed look.

"Yes, I think you do believe me," he said quietly to himself.

"Wicked!" I exclaimed, unable to stop myself from showing a little bit of excitement. "That was better than a magic show!"

And suddenly, his eyes darkened.

"Do _not _compare me to Muggles," he spat violently, bright red sparks flying out from the tip of his wand. They sizzled and sparked towards me, singing the hair on my arms. I jumped back and threw my hands up in front of me.

"Okay, okay. _Touchy_ aren't you,"

"I despise Muggles," he said in a low, menacing voice, while tightly clutching his wand. "And filthy Mudbloods alike,"

"I don't understand...?" I asked, with a frown. Why did he hate regular people so much? And what the hell were Mudbloods? This new wizard vernacular was really confusing me.

"You and I, we are not Pure-Bloods, Potter. Your mother, Lily, was muggle-born, but your father, James, was from a prominent wizarding family. My _father - _" he seethed, " - was a Muggle, with no magic in his blood, but my mother was a witch."

"How is that significant?"

"_Muggles _are despicable. Surely you've noticed that their kind belongs under our feet. Look at your _relatives _for example. They _know _that you are of magical descent, and they fear it, so they treat you as they do now. I see what goes on, Potter, I know that they are abusive."

I trembled with this new bit of information.

"T-they knew? They knew I was a wizard?" I cried out, barely keeping control over my emotions.

He gave me an impassive look.

"Your Aunt Petunia was your mother's sister. Of course she knew. You can see now, Potter, that they are inferior. Fearing your magic, casting you out, calling you a freak because of your strong magical heritage."

I knew that logically, it made no sense, that surely not _all _Muggles were alike, but it was too late. He already planted the treacherous seed into my young, pliable mind.

"And your neighbors? They take your family's word that you are a delinquent, and look at you with distaste. Your teachers? They don't care."

And it was all horribly true. It all made sense now. Why they punished me for strange events, blaming me for causing grief to the family, trying to beat the magic out of me. The neighbors hated me because I didn't fit into their idea of "perfect and normal". My teachers didn't bat an eye, even when the signs of abuse were clear and obvious. Could it be true? Did Muggles deserve a more worse fate? I felt my stomach convulse, and for a moment, I was afraid that I would vomit all over the dark red carpeting of the living room floor.

"We are alike, in that we are not Pure-Bloods, but we can redeem ourselves by ridding the Wizarding Community of tainted blood. You must remember - they ostracized _us _first, forcing us into hiding, terrified of our powers, making our Community a secret. Do you understand this, Potter?"

I nodded weakly and collapsed on top of the chair, making clouds of dust appear in the air. My head spun with this new, and slightly unsettling information.

"I think," I murmured quietly.

Mr. Atherton resumed his seat and looked at me very seriously.

"The Wizarding Community has a long history, which can not all be explained in a single day. I will acquire books for you and allow you to read them, if you are still interested in the topic."

I gave him a pleased smile.

"I would love to, thank you," but then the smile quickly faded. "But I can't read them at the Dursleys," I said morosely. "I'm always either doing chores, running from Dudley, or in the cupboard. And the cupboard doesn't have any lighting,"

He looked thoughtful, tapping his wand against his thigh as he tried to search for a solution.

"I'll have something figured out. Don't worry," he assured me.

I sighed, suddenly exhausted, and tilted my head over the back of the chair, gazing up at the ceiling. I stared, mesmerized by the spinning ceiling fan, and thought, _my life has unexpectedly changed, in a very significant way_.

"Teach me magic," I demanded, still looking up at the ceiling. I watched the wooden ceiling fan spin around and around, creaking ominously. The realization that the Dursleys hated me, abused me, because of my magic made me sick, and made me want to take revenge on them as soon as humanly possible.

"I can't," he said simply.

"Why not?" I asked angrily.

"You have The Trace on you. It is a Ministry charm that detects any illegal magical activity around underaged wizards. In the wizarding world, you come of age ate seventeen. The charm will break on your seventeenth birthday, but until then, they can monitor your magic." he tried to explain. "It will not be wise for you to be found consciously practicing _controlled _magic. It's perfectly fine if you perform 'accidental magic', because mostly all young children do not have control of their magic yet."

"It seems a bit pointless, don't you think," I asked, my eyebrows dipped in displeasure.

"The Ministry wants to make sure that no one is practicing magic outside of their schooling, unless they are given permission to be home-schooled. Everyone in the Great Britain area gets a letter when they turn the age of eleven. It is an invitation to attend the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school I attended and the school your parents attended. Albus Dumbledore is Headmaster of the school."

"And I'll get this invitation when I turn eleven?" I asked with ill-concealed glee. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure you will." he said, amused. But my happiness quickly faded.

"Surely, you know a way to break The Trace?" I asked, because I wanted to learn something that would make me powerful, and less vulnerable, _now_. "Surely, a wizard as powerful as you claim to be, should be able to break it?"

He met my defiance with a raised eyebrow.

"It is not a question of _if _I can break it, but a question of what the Ministry will do once they realize The Trace is broken. They will become suspicious. They will want to investigate _the person _who broke your Trace, and the reason for it. None that will bode well for me."

"But _surely - _" I began again, exasperated, " - you introduced yourself to me and told me about magic because you _wanted _something from me? _Want _me to learn magic? Help you in the _game _perhaps?" I asked shrewdly.

"You are far too intelligent for a seven-year-old," he muttered under his breath. I gave him a sickening sweet smile. "Actually, I turn eight in three weeks." I said proudly.

"Hm," is all he responded with. "But," he said slowly, "There might be something I can do. I can't _break _The Trace, but I can create protection charms around an area that will conceal magical activity, thus, not alerting The Trace to the Ministry. This is actually quite frequent among Pure-Bloods who live in ancestral manors."

I began to hum with excitement, already thinking of all the glorious things I could do, once I knew how to control my _magic._

"But we start slow. Very slow. Remember - a game is being played here, and like all games, we are following a well formulated strategy. One that will be explained to you in due time."

I accepted, and only because I still had three years until my time at Hogwarts. Which reminded me to ask...

"Tell me more about Dumbledore. Is he another 'player'?"

Something flickered in his eyes when I mentioned his name, but it faded quickly.

"Yes," he said bitterly. "He is our opponent. Albus Dumbledore is considered to be the most powerful wizard of his time. He defeated a powerful Dark Lord, and has been the champion for all Muggle-Borns and Muggles. You can see already, Potter, why he must be defeated. He is also the one that sent you to your relatives, _knowing _Petunia's particularly strong dislike of magic."

At once, I felt a rage for him build inside of me, even when I knew nothing of him. Just the fact alone that he sent me to the Dursleys was enough to convince me that he indeed _was _my opponent.

"Maybe he didn't know about, you know, how they treat me," I asked hopelessly.

"No, he most definitely knows. He even has that wretched Arabella Figgs to keep an eye on you. Filthy squib." he sneered.

"Mrs. Figgs?!" I exclaimed. "That cat-loving hag? She's my neighbor!"

"Precisely,"

"S-she _must _know about me... and the Dursleys... which means _Dumbledore _should know..." I trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

"And why am I important, Mr. Atherton," I whispered, the reality of the situation crashing down on me. "You have to tell me,"

"Not yet. You aren't ready yet." he said.

"When will I be ready? What role do I play in this. _Tell me!_" I screamed, jumping to my feet.

"_Sit down!_" he hissed angrily, and for one agonizing second, a white hot pain pulsed through my head. I winced, and sat down, stunned, wondering _why on Earth is my scar hurting._

He mistook my sitting down for compliance, and sat observing me with his fingers in a steeple.

"Your birthday," he promised. "I will tell you everything you need to know on your birthday. Under one condition,"

I nodded fiercely.

"Anything," I said.

"You _must _learn what I offer you in these next three weeks. Without question. Without hesitation."

I felt a cold feeling creep into the pit of my stomach, but I nodded anyway, because this is what I wanted most.

"I understand," I said in a hardened voice.

We met eyes, he saw that I meant it, that I would willingly submit to his tutelage, and stood up.

"We start tomorrow,"

* * *

**I know it's nothing terrible exciting yet, mostly all talk, but it's necessary for my readers to know this info. QUESTION: (It's about the 7th Book - Deathly Hallows): I'm trying to understand this, but I can't, so any answers or explanation would be awesome. Draco took Dumbledore's Elder Wand by force, and it was buried with Dumbledore. If Harry took Draco's hawthorne wand, and _not _the Elder Wand itself, how did he become the Master of the Elder Wand?**


	3. Boy Who Lived

**The Biggest Hoax**

**Summary:** Harry Potter has pulled the wool over the entire Wizarding World's eyes. Who is Harry Potter really? Is he the trusting soldier molded by Dumbledore? Or is he the Dark Lord's long kept secret?

*** edit 02/09/09: BUGGER! I realized that Voldemort never found his wand until later... so I fixed that plot hole up. :(**

**Chapter Three; Boy Who Lived  
**

_"I understand," I said in a hardened voice._

_We met eyes, he saw that I meant it, that I would willingly submit to his tutelage, and stood up._

_"We start tomorrow,"l_

* * *

I knelt before a bed of weeds in the front yard, worrying about how I was going to meet Mr. Atherton when I was being worked like a horse. The sun was blazing hot, and burned at my neck as I bent over, yanking at stubborn weeds. I woke up at the crack of dawn, gasping awake as I dreamed about bright green lights and flying motorcycles, and then ran around non-stop doing house chores. It was around one or two in the afternoon, judging by the ferocity of the sun's heat.

My head snapped up when I heard the familiar crackling of gravel under a person's foot, and saw Mr. Atherton purposefully walking up the driveway and to the front door. He met my eyes, and put a finger to his lips, indicating that I should be quiet and ignore his presence. I perked up, despite the fact that I was dripping with sweat and hungry as hell, and pretended to go back to work.

He knocked on the door. There was a moment's pause, and then I heard the slow creak of the front door opening. Aunt Petunia had her sunflower-yellow kitchen apron on, and a hand towel in her hands.

"Arthur!" she exclaimed. "What a surprise!"

I strained to hear their conversation.

"Petunia, you look lovely as usual," Mr. Atherton said, bowing his head. Aunt Petunia gave an odd, keening giggle and opened her door wider.

"Come in, come in," she insisted, and he entered the Dursley household. The door slammed shut, preventing me from hearing any more of their conversation. I paused, wondering if it was worth the risk, and scrambled over to the open bay windows of the kitchen. I crouched underneath the window and eavesdropped on them. What was Mr. Atherton's plan? What was he up to?

"... expecting you? No work today?" Aunt Petunia asked.

"No, I'm afraid the museum has run out of things for me to do. They told me to go on paid vacation, and I suspect it is because they are exasperated with my constant hovering. But, I have no desire to travel in this blistering heat, so I came here, hoping you could help me."

"Of course, Arthur, we've been neighbors for years."

"I'm thinking about fixing up the house, it's starting to look a tad decrepit, but my back has been bothering me and the Doctor's order is to stay well rested. I was hoping _the boy_ would help with the gardening and such, since he seems well-experienced enough. I'd pay you, of course."

There was a moment of awkward silence, and I could imagine Aunt Petunia struggling to keep up the good 'neighborly' act.

"T-the boy? You want the boy? Are you sure? He's a thieving little delinquent, I'm not sure it's safe for him to be in your home..." she trailed off.

I stiffened at her words. I was most definitely _not _a thieving little delinquent, okay, I admit, I stole leftovers once in a while but _only _because I was weak with hunger and couldn't complete my chores.

"All the other boys in the neighborhood seem to be busy with something. I'm sure I can handle him, even if he is a delinquent. One foot out of place, and I promise he'll be put back into line. So are we in agreement, my dear Petunia?"

"For how long, Arthur?" she asked nervously.

"The rest of the summer, every day except Sunday, from about ten in the morning until supper time? I plan to remodel the entire house. And as for pay, I'll send him home with thirty pounds a day... I know it's not a lot for the hours he'll be working, but he _is _only about eight years old."

"I'll have to talk it over with Vernon, you see, but I'm sure something can be arranged..."

It seemed as if the conversation was coming to a close so I ran back to the weeds and pretended to wrestle with one. The door opened again, and Mr. Atherton left the house. I looked back at the door and the window, to see if Aunt Petunia was spying, and tried to get in a word with Mr. Atherton, but he quickly left. Disappointed, I went back to the gardening.

**&**

I was in the cupboard when I heard Uncle Vernon come home during the evening. The car door slammed shut, and I could hear Aunt Petunia taking his coat, offering him a drink. I remained in the middle of my floor mattress, eager to hear Aunt Petunia mention the conversation she had with Mr. Atherton.

"Vernon, I got the strangest request today, from Arthur," she began, during dinner. I could hear the clanging of eating utensils and their conversations from underneath the stairs.

"Arthur Atherton? That nutter museum curator?"

"Yes, him. He asked for _the boy_ to do some gardening and remodeling in his home. _For the entire summer!_" she shrieked.

Uncle Vernon made noises of disapproval.

"He stays here, Pet, so he can earn his keep." he huffed.

Aunt Petunia hesitated, as if she wasn't sure if she should mention the pay, but spoke anyway.

"Arthur offered to pay thirty pounds a day for about eight hours of work a day."

Uncle Vernon grunted.

"Of course," she quickly added, "The boy must give the money to _you _for being so generous, allowing him to help a neighbor."

And the bickering continued on like that until the end of dinner.

"BOY!" Uncle Vernon shouted. I jumped up in alarm, my heart pounding in my chest. _He doesn't have to bloody scream like that, I can hear him just fine, _I thought angrily. I could hear him lumbering towards the cupboard door, the floorboards shaking as he came nearer. The door flung open, and he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the living room. I winced as I felt bruises form on my upper arm. He threw me down and towered above me.

"Out of my better judgment, I am allowing you to go to Mr. Atherton's house to work for the summer,"

I managed to look worried outside, even though I was cheering in the inside.

"Don't do anything _freaky_," I scoffed in my head, "and _don't _talk about what goes on in this house, if you know what's good for you." he threatened me.

"He'll be paying you thirty pounds a day for doing work around his house, but you'll be giving that money to us at the end of the day, you hear? It's the least you could do after we've fed, clothed, and sheltered you for almost seven years."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," I droned. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me close to his face.

"I'm serious, boy, " he growled. "Nothing unusual, or you'll regret it,"

_Too late,_ I thought. He smacked me across the face for good measure, then threw me back into the cupboard.

"You start tomorrow! But you'll be doing the same chores! You'd better wake up early, boy, or else you won't be able to finish them," he said through the closed door. I shivered, because I heard a clear threat in those words. _Finish them, or else._

**&**

The next morning, I managed to wake up at four in the morning. Four. In the morning. I was so afraid that I wouldn't be able to wake up on time that I had an uncomfortable, fitful sleep. To my amazement, I found the cupboard door unlocked, as I was sure Uncle Vernon would 'forget' to unbolt it, and I crept out into the kitchen. I took a piece of bread from the top of the garbage bin (desperate times call for desperate measures) and headed out to the back of the house to do maintenance work.

I finished painting the fence in time to run inside and make breakfast for the lot of them, then helped Aunt Petunia vacuum and clean some of the rooms. At precisely 9:50AM, she pushed me out the door and told me not to come back until suppertime. Excellent.

I practically sprinted to Mr. Atherton's house, which was only a few houses down, and banged on his front door with my fist. After a moment, the door was pulled open.

"Do control yourself before you enter, Potter," he said dryly, eying my eager excitement with distaste.

Well, that was an easy request. I had enough experience in the Dursley household to control my facial expressions and emotions. I let my body go lax, the signs of excitement now gone, and let my eager expression slip off. Mr. Atherton stared at me curiously.

"You're quite the little pretender, aren't you," he observed, and stepped aside.

"Is that a problem?" I asked coolly, brushing by him as I entered his home.

"On the contrary. Your acting skills will come in handy during our game," he said.

"Back to the game are we? I thought you weren't telling me anything yet,"

He chose to ignore the comment, and led me into another dusty room. It looked like a small den, or an office, with an impressive oak desk on one side and two twin bookcases, lined up next to each other, on the opposite end. And of course, it was dotted with the same eccentric objects that were frequently seen in the living room.

"You'll be making yourself home here for the next three weeks," he said, sweeping his arm out into the open room.

"What will I be doing here?" I asked curiously. I was secretly hoping for something exciting, but he said we would be going _very slow _so I highly doubted it would be what I hoped for. And I was right.

"That," he said, pointing to the desk, "is your desk. Sit." he commanded. I drummed my fingers over the smooth surface of the desk as I walked around to the knee hole, and sunk into a black leather chair with a high back. I immediately felt overwhelmed by the large desk and chair. I was, after all, only (almost) eight years old, and the desk was made for a fully grown man.

"You look rather uncomfortable," he commented, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, well, if you didn't notice, I'm only _eight years old._ This bloody desk is huge," I complained, with my arms folded across my chest.

I watched as Mr. Atherton flicked his arm again, producing the wooden rod that I saw the last time, and pointed it at the desk. I tensed, almost expecting him to do something to me, but instead, the desk shrunk. He kept the wand trained at the desk until it became a comfortable height for me.

"What is that... rod?" I asked. It seemed to be channeling his magic somehow.

"It is my wand. Every witch or wizard purchases one. It is essentially the most important object you will ever have in your entire life, because it is used to perform magic." He walked closer to me and allowed me observe the wand closer. "The outside is made up of wood, nothing special, but the _inside _holds a unique magical item that acts as the core."

"What's the description of your wand?" I asked, completely fascinated and intrigued with the idea of a magical wand.

"Made from a yew tree, with a dragon heartstring core." he told me, and flicked his wand in the air as a demonstration. A bright stream of light shot out of his wand. "This is not my original wand, however." he said, with regret. "After possessing this body, I went back to where I lost my wand, but I could not retrieve it..." he trailed off. "Perhaps someone has picked it up. In the future, I will search for it. It was a yew with a Phoenix feather."

My eyebrows shot up. "Phoenixes are real?!" I gasped.

"Of course they're real. Werewolves are real. Dragons are real. Elves and Goblins are real. Everything is real."

"Awesome!" I exclaimed. "But then, how did you get that wand?"

"I traveled into Diagon Alley - a wizarding shopping district - and slipped the wand away from an unsuspecting shopper. Not all keep their wands so close to them... especially in these times, when they are sure that they are free from danger."

I looked up at him with excitement.

"Can we go to, what was it? Diagon Alley? And get a wand for me?"

"No," he said, quite flatly.

"Why!" I whined. A wizard should deserve his wand, right?

"Don't contradict me," he growled, jabbing his wand down at the table, burning a small black hole in the dark oak. "You'll be reading, quite I lot I imagine, from now until your birthday. You don't need a wand for that,"

"Fine," I grumbled, only because I had promised that I would learn what he wanted me to _without question, without hesitation._

"Good," he said, his eyes flashing, and tucked his wand away up his sleeve. He pointed his hand towards the direction of the bookshelf, and two books came flying off the shelves. He led the books to the desk, and then flicked his hand, causing the books to drop with a heavy 'thud' in front of me.

I stared at the thick leather-bound volumes, then up at Mr. Atherton.

"I thought you said you needed a _wand _to do magic."

"Yes, most wizards do, but I am gifted enough to do both wandless and silent magic. Most magic is done by spells."

I waved my hand at his arm, where his wand was. "So all that stuff you did, most wizards would need to say a spell? But you just did it without saying anything?"

"Correct," he said shortly.

"Interesting..." I muttered to myself.

"But enough of your questions," Mr. Atherton said, walking towards the door. "Read."

**&**

As it neared the date of my birthday, Mr. Atherton seemed to become more anxious and ill-tempered. He would deposit me in the study with a book, a tray of food, and then storm off without speaking to me. I stopped complaining about the difficulty of the books (my eight year old, Muggle-educated mind simply could not wrap around the vernacular and vocabulary) and I stopped asking him questions. He growled and snapped at me whenever I dared to speak out of turn.

The day before my birthday, he gave me another book. It seemed to weigh less than the other books, and had a fairly modern cover. Thank God, because I was getting tired of _Pure-Blood Customs_, _Wizard Genealogy, Blood Purity, The Rise and Fall of the Early Dark Lords, _and _A History of Magic_. Another word about the Trojan war and the witch Circe, or the four founders of Hogwarts, and I would vomit all over his desk and stupid books.

"This," he said, while slamming down the book in front of me, "is the last book you have to read before your birthday."

I picked up the book with interest, and read the title.

"_The Boy-Who-Lived_," I read out loud. "Sounds like a load of fiction to me," I mumbled under my breath, then shrunk away, because Mr. Atherton would have threatened me with a curse by now. But none came, and when I finally managed to look up at him, he seemed calm and composed.

"While you may think it's fiction while you read it, I assure you, it's not. This book has all the facts." he said. He looked a bit uncomfortable, actually.

"Potter - " he began hesitantly. "You may find yourself upset while reading this, but you must finish every last word. Do you hear me, Potter? _Every. Last. Word._" he emphasized, pointing his spindly finger down on the dark green cover of the book.

I looked at him oddly. What was so important about this book? Why did he think I would get upset over the stupid book? I rolled my eyes.

"Trust me, I'll finish it," I said. "If I can go through 600 pages of Malfoy ancestry, then I think I can go through this as well."

"I want to be sure that you finish this, so I'm warding the room. You will be unable to leave the room until you finish the very last word."

"Er - okay. What if it takes longer than the time we have today?" I glanced at the clock. "It's eleven in the morning."

"That's not important right now," he snarled, and spun on his heel. He left the room. The way he glanced back at me one last time before leaving the room had an air of finality to it. A ball of anxiety began to form in the pit of my stomach. Something was wrong.

I gingerly picked up the book and cracked it open, and flipped to the first page. I began to read.

_Harry James Potter was born on 31st July 1980 to Lily and James Potter, formerly the golden couple of Hogwarts and then active members of the Order of the Phoenix. During their time in the Order, James and Lily had encountered He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on three occasions and escaped each time._ _On the night of 31st October 1981 when Harry was just 15 months old, the Dark Lord turned up on their doorstep..._ (1)_  
_

I flinched the first time I read my own name in the book, and flinched again, when I read about their deaths, their _murders._ It was a harrowing story that I had no desire to finish, but had to finish anyway. I held the book tightly in my hands, the tip of my nose pressed against the tiny printing on the page, and read. For hours. The final, magical moments of my happy childhood with James and Lily Potter. That Halloween, when a dark wizard named He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came to our doorstep and killed my mum and dad. The curse that he sent my way, only to have it rebound and curse him instead. How I became the celebrated Boy-Who-Lived, the only person to have ever lived after being cursed with _Avada Kedavra_. How Sirius Black betrayed his best friends. How Albus Dumbledore hid me away, and to this day, no one knows where I am. Where has the Boy-Who-Lived gone? Where is the boy with the thunderbolt scar on his forehead?

By the end of the book, I was sobbing, great heaving sobs that ripped through my chest, leaving me unable to breathe. My tears splattered over the black words on the page, and I smeared them, crazed with the temptation to burn the book. I picked up the book, and threw it across the room, unsatisfied when I heard the dull 'thump' of the book colliding with the wall.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. What was his _real _name, I thought bitterly. What had he done in his time to create such fear? I touched the scar on my forehead, the scar I thought I had gotten from a car crash that killed my parents, and began to put the pieces together in my head. Why it hurt when I looked at him that time when he was angry with me. We had some kind of connection. This no-name _Dark Lord_ was possessing Mr. Atherton.

I stormed out of the study, sick to my stomach, and into the living room. He was waiting for me, patiently it seemed, on the very chair he sat in the first time he told me about himself.

"_Murderer!_" I hissed, my eyes narrowing in on the Dark Lord. "_It's your fault I had a shitty life, Riddle. It's why I got thrown with the fucking magic-phobia Muggles. You _killed _my parents!_" I screamed, and every glass object in the room, including the windows, shattered to bits.

I stood in front of him, out of breath, with my fists clenched into tight fists, and all he did was clap.

"Impressive display of accidental magic," he said. I growled in a way I never knew I could, and began to advance towards him.

"I am going to _bury _you," I whispered quietly. I felt as if I had all the power in the world at my fingertips. I felt invincible. I would avenge my parents. But before I could do anything, he waved his hand, and I found myself in place, unable to speak or move. He stood up and circled me, observing me with new eyes.

"You can't kill me, silly boy, I am _Lord Voldemort_." he said, with a laugh. "You are _not _the only wizard to survive the killing curse - _I survived as well_," He made another slow circle, while I struggled with all my might to throw myself at him. All I could do was watch with helpless eyes.

"There was a prophecy..." he hissed. "A faithful servant told me a part of that prophecy. Would you like to hear it?" he asked, mockingly. "_THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES… BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…_"

"Do you see, Potter? There was a prophecy made about _my demise._ I, the Dark Lord, could not let a mere child get in the way of my reign. So I searched. I searched for children that were born on the last day of July, and found two. The Longbottom family, and the Potter family. They had both thrice defied me."

"I made my choice. I would kill you, Harry Potter, the child that was born on July 31. But for some reason, _for some reason, _the killing curse deflected. I survived, because of my safeguards, and I despaired in the forests of Albania. This child, this _mere child_, put the the most fearsome Dark Lord of the century into a shattered mess."

He leaned into me and brushed aside my bangs. He put a single fingertip to my scar, and it _pulsed _with energy, bordering on pain.

"This scar," he muttered. "This scar marks the day of my downfall. There will not be another downfall again. Mark my words."

His words buzzed in my ear, suffocating me. I didn't want to listen to him anymore.

"Surely, you can understand, why it was necessary? It was for the greater good. I had plans for the future of the wizarding world. I had to stop the mixing of bloods and fight a corrupted Ministry. I had too much to do. If not me, who else would? Who would carry out the vision of Salazar Slytherin, who already knew in his time, what was necessary? Many would say I was cruel, that I killed unnecessarily, but it was unavoidable. I needed the obedience of the people. Sometimes," he hissed, "fear is the only way you can control people."

"You've read, Potter, all of this. What will happen, along the road, if we breed with Muggles? How our magic might be lost through generations of shameless mixing of non-magic folk? And you, you are powerful. I can show you the _true _way, and together, we can bring down the Light side. They _favor _the mixing of bloods. They are stupid, and blind to the truth."

And quite suddenly, I collapsed forward to my knees, the loss of spell giving mobility back to my body. I buried my face in my hands and continued to cry, my mind at war with my inner feelings.

"I know," I sobbed. "I _know _of the vision. I know that it is right and true that we should Purify our blood. But how can I forget that you are the murderer of my parents? How?"

"You will not forget. You may not even forgive. But they impeded my quest to correct the world. It was necessary. For the greater good."

_For the greater good_, he kept repeating to me. _For the greater good_.

"I took you out of the hands of a Light family supporting Dumbledore, and took you out again, of a Muggle family. You should be thankful that I found you, thankful that I have educated you and opened your eyes. This is only the beginning. I can teach you things you would never learn under Dumbledore. _Dumbledore_," he spat, "is only looking to make you into a soldier of the Light. He put you with the Muggles so that you would be _grateful_ when he took you out, after ten years of agony. Under him, you would never reach your fullest potential. He desires for everyone to be under his thumb."

He paused.

"I would know best. He did the same in my youth. Already assuming that I was dabbling in the Dark Arts when I was a student at Hogwarts, keeping an eye on me, trying to control me. I would not do the same. I would help you grow. I would nurture your power. I can teach you magic that wizards have only dreamed of."

My sobbing quieted down to low hiccups. I silently contemplated his words. Though the entire chain of events occurred _because _of him, Dumbledore would have used me in a much worse way than the Dark Lord would. I could walk beside the Dark Lord, or at the very least, create a name for myself that I would otherwise unable to do alone.

I finally lifted my head from the floor of the living room and stared up at the Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort, he said his name was. I trembled when I looked into his eyes.

"I-I don't -" I stammered. "I-"

The Dark Lord offered his hand out to me. I hesitated, and grasped it with my own, feeling another pulse go through my scar.

"Do you accept, Harry Potter? Will you join me?" he asked me. The pulsing grew faster and more frantic the longer I held his hand.

I bowed my head.

"_Yes,_" I whispered.

* * *

**Third chapter! Thank you for all the answers regarding the question I posed in chapter two. It has really cleared up a lot of confusion for me.  
**

(1) _Edited text that I took from the hp-encyclopedia._

**Reviews and such make me uber happy. (: They encourage me to write *hint hint_* _And I know it hasn't been terribly exciting... but things will pick up next chapter. I'm just establishing why Harry joined Voldemort, and the kind of relationship they have. Come back for chapter 4!**

**Let me know via. review if there are any spelling/grammar mistakes. Thanks!  
**


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